Eggnog Shots: Sherlock
by rainy-october-972
Summary: This is just a little mini-series of fluffy holiday-themed oneshots that I'm going to be doing (hopefully a new one every day) for the rest of December. Pairing recommendations absolutely accepted! My plan is to do a different pairing each day so even though it says it's Johnlock there will be other couples added later on. So yeah, I hope you enjoy
1. Holmes Christmas Pudding: Shercroft

It's just dark, and Sherlock sits on the windowsill like a bird, perched precariously just so he can watch the neighbours outside putting lights around the windows of their small, mundane brick house. He doesn't really see the point; a bonfire couldn't make them seem any less ordinary. He much prefers to watch the neighbours on the other side of the house (they've been cheating on each other for around two months now, but that's beside the point). But they have just gone to bed, at least Mrs. Cole has; Mr. Cole slipped out about an hour ago probably mumbling something about groceries and in any case won't be back until much later, so there's nothing to watch at the moment. And inside his own house is perhaps less interesting than the average couple stringing up average holiday lighting, so Sherlock elects to watch the latter instead of participate in another transparent parlor game or magic trick.

Minutes later, still watching the decoration occurring through the ever-thickening snow, he hears footsteps behind him. He knows from their timbre and weight that they belong to his brother. He doesn't turn around, and Mycroft comes to sit awkwardly next to him, obviously having been sent by some concerned aunt or cousin but not wanting to have any interaction whatsoever. Sherlock gives him credit for trying, though.

For a few moments, neither of the boys says anything. Then Mycroft speaks, in a voice that is already ridiculously old for its teenage body. "Patricia says the pudding is ready. It will be out in a few minutes."

"How wonderful." Sherlock's voice is cold as usual, and he continues to look out the window, refusing to acknowledge his older brother's presence beyond these two words.

"Sherlock, you really must join in. They expect – "

"Why?"

"Why _what_?" Mycroft is exasperated now. Sherlock can feel a row coming on and allows himself an inner smirk of satisfaction. This is the only kind of joy he gets from his brother's presence nowadays, because he is so absolutely _boring _and _controlling _and _tiresome._ Sherlock wishes he would just cease to exist, although that might make for even more dull evenings because there would be no one to irritate.

"Why should I participate?" He puts a mocking edge on this word. "They don't care, not really. They're all just concerned with their silly little lives, such boring trivial things, I don't see why I should be subjected to it."

"You're part of the family, Sherlock," Mycroft says, and Sherlock can see that he is using a great level of self-restraint to keep from exploding, "and this is Christmas. A time for family conversation."

"For goodness sake," Sherlock snaps, frustrated, "you make it sound so politically correct, canned dinner, a bow wrapped perfectly around this perfect season! It's not festive, Mycroft, when I have to sit around listening to doddering old fools like Grandfather talk about this war and that marriage and those good old beers – "

"It doesn't matter what you think!" Mycroft is at his boiling point. "If you would like to believe that, then wonderful! But you can't disgrace the family like this – "

"The family?" Sherlock scoffs. "I'm pretty sure that I am the only one concerned in this _disgrace _or whatever you're choosing to call it. They don't care, look at them." He gestures to the sitting room, where a dozen family members are gathered around the fireplace laughing and sipping from tall glasses of champagne. "They're perfectly fine without me over there hearing every word of their silly conversation, which I'm pretty sure I could predict right now anyway. I'm not going to let you have this stupid dictator role over me just because you're 'older and more mature', Mycroft. Just shut up and let me alone, will you!"

"Sherlock, you needn't act so high and mighty, it's dreadfully immature – "

"See! There you go again! I don't need to hear a word from you in order to know exactly what you're going to go on about. It's simple habit. The same goes for everyone over there. Don't believe me?" He takes on an irritated, impressioned voice as he begins to recite. "Auntie May got a new hat at the shop last week, she's really excited about it but miffed that Uncle Rupert hasn't noticed it. Patricia's got a fiancée, obviously, you need only look at her gloves to know that she's impatient for the wedding, but what she doesn't know is that her husband-to-be isn't actually being truthful about that night in the pub. Grandma Holmes is going insane, she won't be around to bore us much longer, and Grandpa Holmes has started smoking again. The cousins found an orphaned kitten behind the mill yesterday and they're trying to keep it, but Aunt Marge says no. As for James, he's been cheating on Agatha for a month now but oh, get this, it's with the butcher. And Harriet has been involved in some complicated scandal but she's still sure she's going to get away with it, but no, not when they find the kettle –"

"Stop it now, Sherlock! All right? No need for your showing off, especially with such offensive issues –"

"It doesn't matter! Don't you see, none of this matters! I don't care to hear anything more from any of them because they've already said the things that are important. The rest's just white noise. Now, will you _please_ bugger off for once, and let me be a hermit if I want, it's not going to disgrace you or the family or anyone and you know that."

Mycroft begins to open his mouth again angrily, but closes it, apparently unable to think of a good retort. Just then, they are both called into a stalemate, for Patricia calls loudly from the kitchen, "Boys! The pudding's done! Come and have a taste!" Neither one of them can bring themselves to defy Patricia.

Later, around the carved wooden dining table, Sherlock glowers over his plate at Mycroft, who tilts his head upwards and pretends not to notice as he begins a shallow and uninteresting conversation with one of the cousins. Sherlock kicks his feet at him under the table in frustration, but Mycroft expertly avoids the blows, having had bruised shins quite enough times for his liking in the past. Auntie May starts to talk to him about her new hat, and he resignedly feigns interest while inwardly grumbling. The rest of the dessert course passes in silence for Sherlock refuses to accept that anything being discussed is even worth a mention.

Finally the interminable feast is over, and the dishes are cleared as Sherlock slips away upstairs to his bedroom, the one place he can count on not being disturbed. He watches out of one of his windows as the relatives gradually leave, watching for any telling shifts in behavior or dress because, though he would deny this is questioned, he does find some of it fascinating. For instance, the way Rupert straightens Marge's hat with half a smile and an almost undetectable wink, or the way the three cousins belonging to the latter all gather around for a moment to look at something in Mycroft's hand. He enjoys noticing the hints, the clues that follow everyone everywhere, all of the people he has ever seen, even the neighbours on the left side, although they have gone inside now and there is nothing of real interest to notice anyway. He likes feeling as if he has not control but omniscience, an ability to see anything and decode its deeper meaning. This is the reason that he enjoys the winter holidays, though he will never admit it to Mycroft. And anyway, he thinks, settling into his bed for another halfway-sleepless night filled with hypotheses and stories, the snow and its effects on the lighting and the way the world looks is rather enchanting. Just because he doesn't concern himself with such trivial things doesn't mean that he can't ever enjoy them.


	2. A Lovely Christmas Guest: Sherlull

"Nice evening, isn't it?"

Sherlock got no response to this sentiment, but this didn't bother him. On the contrary, he sighed with contentment, scratching the back of his neck absentmindedly with his violin bow while gazing upon his Christmas Eve company. It was a nice evening, really: no family to disturb the comfortable quiet, and the flat's weak but acceptable lighting and its many drapings caused him to feel at peace, cozy even, something that did not happen on ordinary weeknights. "Ah, the magic of Christmas," he mused aloud, only half-sarcastically. "What do you think? A good change of pace from all those murders and disappearances? Mm."

The skull seemed to agree, but then, it always did. Sometimes Sherlock wondered how such a dead – literally – object could feel so awake, as if it was actually listening to him. _Must be the eyes._

"Of course, that's not to say that nothing will come up. Probably will, in fact, given the holiday's importance and the proximity of so many people who may or may not enjoy one another's company. Remember that Belgian boy with the houseplant? That was a fun one." His friend (well, when he says friend…) stared back at him with morbid interest. Sherlock sighed and set his violin on the table, still gripping his bow as he rose from the easy chair. "A cup of tea seems appropriate, don't you think? Would you care for any? Oh, no, don't give me that. All right then, a cup for Sherlock Holmes and I suppose you'll just watch me as usual. It wouldn't hurt to just have a sip, you know." Sherlock stood there for a moment savoring his words, amused by his own wit, and then made his way to the kitchen.

He brewed a strong cup of Earl Grey, looking at the stains on the counter with a certain fondness. He could pinpoint the causes and origins of most of them: oh, there's a bloodstain from that one case with the blue boxes; that was when he spilled his coffee in excitement at finally figuring out where the poodles had been taken; over there is the grease from a very important pancake. And, of course, there were various scratches, most having been here when he begun to take rent but a few products of either frustration or exultation. When his tea was ready, he walked slowly back to the living room, not wanting to add another stain simply because this tea would be a dreadfully insignificant thing to remember and he wanted to at least have interesting stories to pay for the damages of.

He sat back down, glancing at the skull, and then got up again and walked over to the mantel, picking it up. He perched it on the top of his knee, where it would stay precariously balanced for the rest of the evening. "Now what do you think of this tea, eh?" he said, smiling winningly at it over the top of his mug.

Sherlock heard a disturbance outside and glanced out the window, but it appeared to be nothing other than the neighborhood stray, mewling at an empty bin that it must have overturned in its hunger. Sherlock chuckled. "Interesting creatures, felines. And yet…so dull. Surely you agree?"

The skull's response was predictable.

"I shouldn't ask you. What do you know? We never go out anymore. That should happen. Quite fun, isn't it, roaming about the streets of London carrying a skull. Talking to it. I should definitely do that more often." He smirked again, then turned his attention back to the window. It was now snowing rapidly, and it seemed to be sticking to the ground and rooftops of cars. "How wonderful. A white Christmas. Contrary to the logic of the warm asphalt and the streetlamps all creating a nearly impossible habitat for such flakes to thrive. _Science._ Imponderable and so intriguing." The head on his knee nodded as his foot tapped up and down absentmindedly.

"In any case, it's starting to get a bit boring cooped up in here, don't you think? I feel as if the Christmas spirit has left me. But of course there's no one to phone. Not my arch enemy, of course. Nor anyone else. What do you think we should do with this evening, hm?"

No response. The skull seemed too to be growing weary of the silence and being talked at. Or perhaps Sherlock was just imagining it. What kind of question was that, of course he was imagining it, he was talking to a bloody old skull. He smiled wistfully at this. "Just like so many occasions before this, it seems you're going to be my only companion, pal." _Just fine with me,_ his companion replied with his hollow eyes. Sherlock grinned and patted it on the head.

He finished his cup of tea and reached for his violin, having managed not to drop his bow or leave it in some obvious place that would somehow take him weeks to find. He began to play a slow, sorrowful tune as the skull looked on. He thought it did rather enjoy his playing; in any case, it never protested these impromptu concerts, and never booed. All in all, he thought to himself, throwing in a handful of staccatos among the drawn-out low notes, it was quite a polite and proper audience.

As the darkness outside succeeded in putting out the streetlamps and even most of the window lights across the way vanished, Sherlock played on for his guest, transitioning from a somber improvisation to an upbeat and joyful concerto which flowed into some songs more appropriate for the season and occasion. Eventually the eve of Christmas was replaced by the day itself, and Sherlock continued manufacturing note after note, not caring for such overdone on-the-minute celebrating. The skull on his knee begun to grow drowsy along with him, and although its eyes did not droop – how could they? – Sherlock knew after a time that he'd done enough playing and it would serve them both well if he put away the violin and finally headed off to bed. He estimated it to be about three in the morning as he did so, locking his violin case and carefully replacing his friend on the mantelpiece where he was accustomed to watching the former's chronicles. Pausing to kiss it on the top of its bony skull, forever amused by this internal phrasing, he cleared the dust from around its jawbone and placed a small square of velvet over top so that it could get a proper sleep away from the light (Sherlock preferred to sleep with the flat lights on, disliking waking up in the middle of the night and feeling disoriented; he liked to know exactly what his surroundings were). Then he receded to his own bedroom, not bothering to remove his clothes before slipping beneath the covers and closing his eyes against the lamp and the figures that were snowflakes outside the window, continuing to descend and come to rest on the ground despite the apparent illogical-ness of this phenomenon. His last thought before the night washed away his consciousness was one of music, an unfinished symphony, but he was out cold before he was able to scribble the festive notes in the margins of a book.


End file.
